A Better Place
by piperholmes
Summary: For STEAMM. Part 3 of the "In Love and War" Series. Sybil's Story: as a nurse serving in war torn France Sybil meets war correspondent Tom Branson late one dark night in the bitter cold of winter. With despair all around them, perhaps there isn't a better place to find hope


**A Better Place**

**By: piperholmes**

**This is my contribution to STEAMM! The delightful and wonderful Lala-kate approached me and asked if I wanted to contribute to her idea of a three-part series, which I believe we've dubbed "In Love and War", about the Crawley sisters, and their beaus, during WW2. WW2? The Crawley sisters? Their beaus? HOW COULD I REFUSE?! So be sure to check out lala-kate's _The Nightwatch_, for Mary's story, and queenlovett's_ The Pied Piper of Locksley_, for Edith's story!**

**_Enjoy and Happy STEAMM!_**

* * *

Tom Branson clenched his coat around himself, holding the collar close in an effort to stave off the wet chill seeping through the inky black night. As the army vehicle bounced along the heavily damaged road he fought to keep his body rigid and held firmly against his seat. He had no wish to fall flat on his face in front of a troop of Yanks.

The mood was somber, quiet, most of the men doing their best to catch some "shut eye," as he'd heard them call it. Not that he blamed them. The XXI Corp was fresh off the front, having been attached to the French First Army, fighting to free Eastern France and bringing about the collapse of the Poche de Colmar. It had been a month long battle, in the bitter cold of winter, the start of a new year that had meant to mark the end of the war. As the allies gained ground, pushing Germany further and further back, it felt like the end was close, but Tom wasn't quiet ready to call it.

He'd spent years in the war, having never fired a gun, rather, recording and relaying, but that didn't mean he hadn't been through the battles. He knew the fear of bullets flying, striking the young man next to him, or the shattering horror of tanks and the unprejudiced destruction of bombs. And he knew too many of his fellow correspondents who hadn't made it out alive. Yes, it felt like the end was in sight, but in a way that seemed to make it worse; to make it this far, only to die just before the end? It made everyone nervous.

It made Germany desperate.

And Tom knew desperate men were capable of great of victories and great destruction.

As the vehicle hit a particularly hard bump he heard a small grunt of discomfort sound in the silence. It wasn't hard to know who it was; the higher pitch, the softer lilt. They had picked up a nurse just before they left Alsace heading to Paris. His gaze moved to the small bundled figure just across from him.

He'd managed a glimpse of her as she climbed aboard, as a reporter he was paid to mind the details. He'd taken in her pale face, deep blue eyes, plump lips and barely tamed curled hair tucked under her nurses cap. She was rather striking. Yet he'd also seen the dark skin just below her eyes, the tight press of her lips, and the tired acceptance of death and cruelty.

No one was young and hopeful anymore.

"Alright?" he ventured quietly, his voice gravely from disuse.

The bundle shifted, her eyes reflecting what little moon light was shining through the thin canvas cover. He heard a bit more movement and realized she must be nodding or shaking her head.

"I am," she answered, seeming to realize he couldn't see her all that well.

Her words confirmed his suspicions, having heard a mumbled "thank you" escape her lips as a soldier had pulled her up into the truck, he'd thought he'd heard a bit of an accent.

"You're English?"

He heard her take a deep breath. "I am."

Tom felt a small chuckle escape.

"Why are you laughing?"

"Because even without the accent I'd guess you were English; so stiff and proper."

She sat up straighter, and Tom saw a flash in her eyes, the white skin of her face glowing. "And I would have guessed Irish based on the lack of uniform and the slouch."

She was a fighter.

Tom winced. He'd faced a lot of grief over Ireland's neutrality, and his own choice not to fight.

"Sorry," she breathed. "That was uncalled for."

"Nah, I'm sorry," Tom immediately interjected, hoping his tone was light. "I started it."

A stalemate was reached as they both sat silent. It would be easy to close back up, to excuse the lack of human contact and retreat back into themselves, but Tom was a curious person, he liked to ask questions, and he had to admit there was something rather intriguing about this young woman, so far from home.

"I'm Tom," he ventured, and waited. He wasn't going to push, if she wasn't interested in talking that would be the end of it.

The pause stretched on before she shifted once more, facing him fully now. He couldn't blame her; he could only imagine how often some randy officer tried to strike up a conversation with her.

"Sybil," she finally answered, and Tom felt a smile tug at the corners of his lips, an unexplainable sense of victory giving him confidence.

"Sybil," he let the name roll around his tongue. "That's a beautiful name."

He heard her snort. "Really? That's what you're opening with?"

Tom felt a bit sheepish, but delighted in her teasing. "Sorry, should I have instead said 'Oh Sybil, mighty prophetess, your beauty and wit enraptures me as Apollo of old!'?"

His theatrics brought about the desired result as he heard a small, airy laugh. "No, I suppose not," she admitted. "Such prose seem to have no place on this cold, dark road."

Tom frowned. "I can't think of a _better_ place."

She was quiet, and he knew she was considering his words.

"What are you doing here?"

Her sudden question threw him for a moment. "I'm…I'm a reporter for the _Evening Standard_."

"You report on the war?"

"Yeah."

"And what do you report?"

Tom shifted, feeling like this woman was used to being answered. "I report troop movement, and battlefield stories."

"Have you been in many battles?"

He sighed. "Enough to last me a lifetime."

She seemed to accept this, seemed to relax a bit more, as if he'd passed a test.

"You don't brag," she whispered, prompting his brow to raise. "Some men pretend they've been through this war, but I can always tell, because they brag. Boys killing boys, women and children bombed on the roads as they flee their homes; there is nothing to brag about."

He could hear the pain in her voice, and his heart warmed knowing that this young woman hadn't been completely suffocated, made numb by the many horrors she had no doubt witnessed.

She was compassionate.

He wanted to hear her laugh again.

"You sound awfully posh," he observed, hoping to pull her out of her memories.

He must have surprised _her_ this time, hearing again the husky quiet laugh. "Thank you? I suppose? My granny would be delighted to hear I've maintained some aspects of my upbringing."

"Nannies and governesses?" Tom guessed, his probing allowing her the chance to expound.

"You are a reporter aren't you?" she asked bemused, before shrugging in surrender. "I don't like talking about it, people get awfully uncomfortable, but yes, nannies and governess."

"So what's a wealthy, posh girl like you doing in France?"

"Who said I was wealthy?"

He blinked, unprepared for her retaliating question. "I suppose I just assumed—"

"A bad habit for a reporter," she pointed out.

She was smart.

The sardonic raise of her eyebrow was enough to convince him to change his line of questioning.

"Are you a QA?" He'd had some contact with Queen Alexandra nurses, impressed with their bravery and skill.

"No, I started with St. John's in London during the Blitz then sent to France."

"And are you enjoying your time abroad?"

He heard Sybil cluck. "Honestly I have to say the accommodation leave much to be desired. I had to launder my own clothes? Can you image?"

"The horror," Tom replied as the pair shared a laugh.

She was funny.

The absurdity of it all sometimes struck him; to be in a foreign country, killing men with no faces but plenty of story, riding a long a dark road with a pretty girl surrounded by men who longed to see their own pretty girls.

"You have a family in Ireland?"

Tom shook his head, then remembered how dark it was. "Not really. My mam is in Dublin and I've a brother in Liverpool but that's it.

"No girl waiting for you?"

Tom felt a bit of hope at her question, before his heart sank at the possibility of her being someone's girl.

"No…you?"

"Do I have a girl waiting for me?" she drawled. "How very progressive of you Tom."

"No…I meant…do you have a boy…" he flustered, before shaking his head. "You are a cheeky one."

He didn't need much light to see her lips lift in a smile, a genuine full smile, and he felt his heart speed up.

"The answer's no, by the way," she said, a bit shyly. "I have some family near York, and two sisters, one in London, the other spends her time helping orphans and those displaced by the blitz, but no beau."

Tom took in this information, took in the way he felt a bit of excitement for the first time in a long while, took in the desire to never stop speaking with her, to want to know everything about her, to see her fully: this English rose amid the thorns of war.

"My sister Mary sings there," Sybil said, unaware of his thoughts. Her tone had grown wistful. "I miss that, hearing her sing."

"I don't suppose—"

But Tom's words were interrupted by a commotion, causing the truck to stop suddenly, tossing the troops about, prompting Tom to reach out and steady her.

Shouting erupted and screams for a medic went up. Sybil shrugged his hands away, standing, moving to the back of the truck.

He wanted to call out to her, plead with her to stay, to not go out where it was unsafe, but of course he didn't. That wasn't who she was, and he knew that wasn't how they were together. War creates odd bonds and he knew these moments together had somehow created a connection between them.

Just before she jumped off the back of the truck, she whirled around, her eyes pinning him.

"Yes," she said firmly. "Whatever you were about to ask me, the answer is yes."

And she moved quickly toward him, he instinctively jumping to his feet just before her hands reached out and grabbed the cold material of his coat, forcing him down, her lips slamming into his.

It was over before it really began and a slightly dazed Tom nodded, ignoring the knowing smirks on the faces of his fellow travelers, just watching as she scrambled down to go help those who needed aid.

He would take her for coffee, he would hold her hand, he would share his ideas with her, he would make slow love to her as his lips lingered on hers, he would lose his heart to her. He would do all those things; the rest was detail.

**Thank you for reading! And don't forget to check out Parts 1 and 2!**


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